


Obnoxious and Devoted

by LeDiz



Series: The 48: Dragon Age [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian becoming the Good Tevinter, M/M, Mostly through denial and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeDiz/pseuds/LeDiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Dorian adjusts to life with the Inquisition, he also finds himself adjusting to friendship, whatever he has with the Iron Bull, and maybe himself as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obnoxious and Devoted

Oh, sweet Maker, he’s obnoxious.

It’s not the first thing you think of when you see him. The first thing is ‘holy shit, Qunari’, followed by ‘their skin is too thick for fire, but fire and necromancy is all I’m good at, shit fuck shit’, and then the Herald does that charming hand thing (not the scary-holy hand thing, but rather the flick, like she’s presenting the world to you) and says “This is the Iron Bull. His mercenary company are working for us, and Bull works with me.” and your next thought is ‘ah. Tal-Vashoth. Crap.’ until he smirks at you and says “But _for_ the Ben-Hassrath. Let’s get that bronto out of the room.” and your mind goes completely blank.

“Oh, can’t forget that,” the Herald says, like it’s a joke, and the Bull chuckles too.

Your mind is still blank, but there’s a faint buzzing in your ears.

Not just a horned giant.

Not just Qunari.

Ben-Hassrath. A spy.

And the blasted Herald thinks its bloody _amusing_.

 

* * *

 

You don’t much care for Haven. You don’t much like tents and camping. You’d very much like one of the buildings, but they’re only for the _special_ people.

Who the special people are, you haven’t quite got a handle on.

The Herald has one – a nicely furnished one, at that. So does Josephine. But Cullen bunks down (such a horrible phrase, but you don’t actually believe the man sleeps) with his soldiers and Leliana occasionally closes her eyes on that cot (how the woman hasn’t died from frostbite… you suspect spite may be involved) (whether it’s the emotion or the demon, you aren’t quite sure). You would claim a bed the way Lady Vivienne must have done, or at least demand the Herald share her roof, but you’re on thin ice already and suspect a tent is more comfortable than a cell.

The cell is probably a damn sight warmer, but you’ll take freedom any day.

Besides, Varric is in a tent near yours, which means you hear the stories he tells other campers every night. His voice lulls you to sleep even after the most trying days. So that’s something.

 

* * *

 

You’re wary around the Iron Bull the first few days. You don’t speak to him, just watch.

It’s during these days that you start to notice his obnoxiousness. The way he laughs, the way he rolls his shoulders. He knows he’s distracting. Revels in it.

The worst thing is, nobody else seems to care. Varric only has eyes for his crossbow, Vivienne is more concerned with dressing him like a doll, Solas is… well, if it isn’t a dream, you’re pretty sure Solas only notices it if it’s in his way. Sera’s more concerned that Bull isn’t annoyed by her. Cassandra seems to respect him, but otherwise finds him unremarkable.

And the Herald thinks the Iron Bull is _funny_.

Right now, he’s watching you from across the camp, all dark eyes and full lips. You frown at him, try to focus on the awful stew Varric has whipped up. The Iron Bull drags his tongue, long and slow, across his top lip, and you wonder what in the Maker’s name is _wrong_ with him.

You start to hate him, just a little bit.

 

* * *

 

Some days, you aren’t quite sure what to make of the Herald. She is firm and sure, but there is something so awkward about her at the same time. Like someone who isn’t quite sure what to do with their hands, only it’s her entire self.

When Haven is destroyed (which of course it is – what else could you expect of your luck?), you watch her in the camp. She has a few days of doubt, in which she seems more dead than alive. Of course, you must give her some credit. She was almost dead when Cullen and the others found her. And once she is fully healed, it takes less than a day before she takes up the role as guide. It takes less than a week before she is once again a fearless leader that has them all in awe.

Some days, you feel like her total opposite and inversion. You have faked so much of yourself, for so long, and when it comes down to the hard line, you can only run. While she stands up to everything, including the world, and triumphs because she refuses to accept any less.

She finds Skyhold, in all its half-destroyed glory. And she looks at it like it’s a gleaming fortress.

You see a pile of loose stone mostly held together by spite.

But you look at the Herald. The Inquisitor.

And you see wonder.

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull wants to –

You don’t know what to call it.

He’s not flirting. No, flirting is more fun than this – it’s harmless. What the Iron Bull wants would not be harmless, or safe. No. No, he wants… something else.

It’s more distracting than the rest of him. It can derail your thoughts entirely. Because honestly, it comes from nowhere. Today, you were literally in the middle of berating him and his kind for how they conquer others, and he took it straight to sex.

You honestly can’t see the connection.

But the way he describes it…

You don’t want it. You aren’t even attracted to him. You don’t like big, burly types, full of sex and pleasure and – it’s vulgar, is what it is. Disgusting.

But the way he describes it. The way he looks at you as he says things that fill your mind and fuel your libido.

Maker take you, your mouth goes dry at the thought.

 

* * *

 

You’re getting to like Skyhold, for all its dilapidated glory. You have your own room again (thank the Maker), and the Inquisitor has ordered in furniture in just your style. The food is getting better every day, and you know it’s not just your tastebuds adapting, because the tavern is as disgusting as it ever was. You thank Lady Josephine and she gives that modest little smirk only Antivans can pull off.

You’re also getting to like the rest of the Inquisitor’s ‘inner circle’, as you’re becoming known. Even Sera, who is good for an argument and a laugh. You conspire with Vivienne over the Inquisitor’s wardrobe and debate religion with Cassandra. She takes it a little seriously for you, but it’s fun nonetheless.

Cullen is a walking wet dream and doesn’t know it, which is even better.

The library catches your attention though. You spend far too many hours in your little corner, studying culture, history, and Ferelden fairytales. Everyone seems to have accepted it as ‘yours’, or perhaps no one else wants the books from it, because you’re only ever bothered by people coming to talk to you specifically.

And there are more than you expect. People look past the accent, the features that mark you. The magic is literally unimportant, in this keep where mages really are just part of the community. The thing that marks you as different is your relationship to the Inquisitor, and you are hardly alone in that.

For the first time, you are being solely judged on your deeds.

It’s an odd feeling.

 

* * *

 

You wake up feeling trapped and there’s a few seconds of panic before you realise it’s because there’s an arm thicker than your waist draped over you.

Then the ache and the stickiness and the taste of too many wines all comes flooding in and you realise you _know this arm_.

Oh.

Oh, Maker’s _balls_.

You are never drinking again.

And so you shove at the arm. Typically, it doesn’t move. So you shove it again, harder, and this time the Iron Bull grumbles but does, thankfully, pull his arm back enough for you to clamber out from under it.

That, of all things, wakes him.

“Going somewhere?” he slurs. You don’t look at him. You are very focussed on the realisation that your robes have been torn rather than unbuttoned. You vaguely remember laughing at that last night.

Never. Drinking. Again.

Your trousers, at least, are intact. Though you can’t see your underthings and you aren’t sticking around to search.

“Dorian?”

He sounds slightly concerned. You ignore him as you pull your trousers up.

“Dorian. Stop panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” you snap. Because you aren’t. You are disgusted. With yourself, with him, with this whole situation. A drunken tumble with a sweaty, muscle-bound _Qunari_. It would have been base whoever the other party was. It being Bull is simply degrading.

“This wasn’t a big deal.”

You shuck off your torn robes, throw them at the fire place, and follow it up with an immolation spell. You’d rather go shirtless than be so crass as to admit to anyone what had actually happened.

“As you say,” you say shortly. You decide the shirtless look will be more appropriate if you go barefoot and simply pick up your boots and stockings. Besides, it’s almost dawn and there will be people about. You are _not_ going to get asked about this.

So you gather up the remains of your dignity, turn and give the Iron Bull your most imperious look. “Thank you for the night. It was…” Hot as hell, from your fuzzy memories. The fact he kept most of his armour on was surprisingly delicious. You shove such drunken thoughts from your mind. “It was enjoyable enough.”

The Iron Bull’s expression slowly morphs into something else. Something amused and smug. “So pleased I could make it happen for you.”

“I’m sure you are,” you say. And then you turn on your heel and march out.

You would be lying if you said your hands didn’t wander a few times while you were trying to wash yourself off.  But you don’t admit it’s the memory of his smirk, the orders, the rough handling, the hot, wet…

You put it all out of your mind.

 

* * *

 

You don’t know why you watch the judgements. They’re not usually entertaining, though the Inquisitor does often surprise you with her verdicts.

But every time one is scheduled, you find yourself wandering out to join Vivienne on the mezzanine, watching from the rafters. The two of you discuss the outcomes. You debate the politics of it. You give opinions of what you would do in her place, what advice you would give her if she had time to listen, daydream of what it would be like to sit on that throne and make those calls.

For the first time in a long time, you think of what it would be like if you’d followed your father into the magisterium.

You write him letters now, sometimes. You don’t tell him what’s going on, but you ask about the family, about his work.

You desperately want to ask about your homeland.

But you are here for the Inquisition. And so you don’t.

 

* * *

 

The second time you wind up naked and squirming in the Bull’s sweaty, grime-ridden hold, you’re both completely sober, unless you count rage as an intoxicant.

You can’t remember how the argument started. It might have actually been something about the Inquisitor. It doesn’t matter, really, because it became personal very quickly, as you pointed out every single one of his flaws, from the smirk on his face to his infuriating refusal to wear a shirt.

Then… something happened, and you were up against a wall with your heels grinding into his back.

It’s in the rubble between the tavern and Cassandra’s personal training area, late, and no one’s around, but it’s still frighteningly public. You were aware of it as he stripped your trousers, and at the time it made it all the more enticing. But now you’re hyper conscious of the guards patrolling the walls only a few dozen feet above you, and the windows facing this direction.

You’re also acutely aware of the Iron Bull as he separates you, but keeps you in his arms, caught between him and the wall.

“So,” he says, slowly. Carefully. Like you’re some frightened rabbit. Part of you feels like one. “This happened.”

“Yes,” you agree. And say nothing else. It’s hard when you’re still in this position. You want to drop your legs, get down and away, but at the same time, you’re so boneless and besides, you aren’t sure ‘want’ is the right word.

“Second time,” he reminds you, like it should mean something.

“We are not talking about this,” you say firmly. “Ever.”

He gives you an odd look. His eyes dart down to the position you’re both in. Then, without warning, he pushes back in and starts attacking your neck with tongue and teeth. Your fingers clench against his shoulders and you can’t help the moan.

How – how – how…

You feel helpless and willing and it’s wonderful in a way it shouldn’t be. You are a mage of Tevinter. You are above Qunari. Above rutting in dirty alleys.

“If –” You gasp and shove at his shoulder until he pulls back enough to look at you. Then you can think enough to look imperious, despite the reminder that you’re both lustful enough to go a second round right now. “I know you Qunari have beastly practices, but if you _must_ bathe me, I demand privacy. And a proper water basin.”

For a moment, he looks confused, before the smirk is back, and he looks all too smug. “You’re right. I got you like this; I should clean you up.”

Maker, it’s dirty. You drop out of his arms and go to pull your trousers back up, but he stops you. Does it for you. His fingers slide and grip and drag and it’s positively filthy. You’re hard again already and the look on his face says he loves it.

You don’t get a bath because of course the Bull doesn’t have one. But he does have a sponge and a water bucket and he orders— _orders_ —you to heat it and he gives you the best damned cleaning of your blighted life.

You’ve never had it like this. It’s confusing, but also remarkably simple. As he once said, he _conquers_. And then, like a proper master, he cares.

It’s atrocious and degrading and doesn’t at all fit with what you deserve as a Pavus.

It’s absolutely fantastic.

 

* * *

 

The Winter Palace is a strange but familiar event, and you spend the evening revelling in the skills you’ve all but forgotten. You also watch the Inquisitor, impressed by how quickly she picks up the Game and masters it.

The Orlesians are odd, though. The masks, oh, how you loathe the pretension of it. It’s not nearly as clever as they think it is. Acknowledging the masks does not make them more trustworthy.

Maker, but you miss Tevinter.

Yes, it was bloodthirsty and trust was an impossible commodity, but at least it was honest in that. If you wanted to kill someone, you did it, openly. None of these bards and backdoor dealings. Politics conducted so quietly, so politely, it’s disgusting.

No. Politics are dark and dirty. Covering shit in silk doesn’t hide the smell.

Still. There are parts of the Game you can admire. The fashion, the intrigue. Leliana fascinates you at the Winter Palace, as you finally see the woman she probably was in her prime. Girlish, giggling, sweet. A diamond tipped arrow, coated in scentless poison.

You wonder what it would be like, to be re-immersed in a world you thought you’d left behind, or moved beyond. To return, better and more connected than you ever were before.

You wonder what it would be like to enter the senate.

 

* * *

 

Varric is… a difficult friend to have.

Well. He’s not really a friend, as he uses the term. The only ‘friend’ you actually think you have is perhaps the Inquisitor, and that’s a complicated enough thing, what with her trying to save the world and your surety that you’re all doomed to fail. No, Varric and the others are colleagues, but there is something to be said for that.

But he toes the line a little, the way he watches you lately.

He was always slightly cautious of you. He’s slightly cautious of mages and templars in general, though Solas gives him more pause than you do. But these days, his concern seems less about you and more about what you’re doing.

He clearly wants to say something. But it won’t be anything you want to hear. It will lead to a disagreement the Inquisitor will likely have to solve. No one wants that. So he stays silent and you tolerate his glances.

“I’m just saying,” he says abruptly one day, when you’re halfway through breakfast and neither of you have said a word yet, “you need to be careful. You know he’s not what he seems, and you’re gonna get hurt.”

It’s…

You can only stare at him for what seems an age.

No one has ever said something like that to you before.

“Thank you for worrying,” you say. If you sound surprised, it’s because you are. You have to hurry to cover it up, or someone will think you’re going soft. And you don’t want this conversation to continue. “But I can handle my own affairs.”

“You know Hawke said the same thing,” Varric notes, but goes back to his meal. He doesn’t acknowledge you again until he’s done.

 

* * *

 

Solas is really beginning to annoy you. You’re not sure why.

It’s understandable to some extent – the entire inner circle spends so much time together that you’re bound to get on each other’s nerves. And Solas makes no secret of the fact he believes elves and spirits are superior, so everyone finds that a little grating. But there’s something about his attitude that’s really quite…

Smugness you would almost welcome. This… this… _pity_. Yes, that’s it. Pity.

You loathe pity.

So you avoid him, when you can. Luckily, the Inquisitor prefers not to have too many mages on the field at once, and so you rarely have to put up with him on outings, and it’s easy enough to ignore him at Skyhold, if one can tolerate the smell of fresh paint.

Everyone else, you’re almost growing fond of. Like silly puppies running about your ankles. Well, puppies are probably wrong. Vivienne is definitely a kind of cat, most likely one that eats humans, and only Sera and Cole are young enough to be considered any kind of child. Still, it’s a very _Ferelden_ sort of atmosphere. You’re almost beginning to understand the appeal.

The realisation that you’ll miss them startles you.

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull enjoys lounging naked, and so he often watches you dress.

The strange thing is that today you’ve found yourself watching him back. And it’s not heated, or tempting. You just find yourself looking at him. You find yourself thinking about things.

About what a good man he is, underneath it all.

About strength, and safety, and other things you never thought really mattered before you came here.

You find yourself thinking about how Tal-Vashoth are not welcome in Tevinter.

You say nothing, and leave words lingering in the air between you.

**Author's Note:**

> The 48 are a collection of unfinished and/or pointless fics saved to my hard drive, now posted on Ao3 for people's interest or in case they want to adopt them. This is the 48th fic I've posted on Ao3, but not the last by any means. The 48 aren't all saved separately.
> 
> I usually have to cheat in order to progress Dorian and Iron Bull's relationship, but I get the distinct impression it was supposed to happen in most games. It, like Dorian's friendship (or romance) with the Inquisitor, seems so very tied to his growth as a character that I can't really buy him becoming The Good Tevinter without it.


End file.
